


Gross Beautiful People

by leslielol



Category: Justified
Genre: Episode Related, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, bowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:19:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leslielol/pseuds/leslielol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fast cars. Gaudy mansions. Exotic birds. Tim, Raylan, and Rachel make use of the Monroe mansion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gross Beautiful People

**Author's Note:**

> For hootenanny, who wanted to see Rachel and Tim having a little fun. Set after 5x02.

Detroit mob accountant Monroe was a _sexist, racist asshole,_ but he had fine taste in cars. 

Tim thought so, too, which was how he’d convinced Raylan they ought to take the sleek Mercedes down near Harlan where they had an informant with some supposed intel to share. 

Raylan, who'd spent the previous day tailing the goddamn spirit of the holler itself, Loretta McCready, was glad for a more straight forward task less likely to result in an international criminal affair. Their informant had never been out of Harlan, save for a trip to Mexico which "was in error and doesn't fuckin' count on account of me being damn near comatose." 

A familiar drive to a chatty informant. It was easy, routine, and a nice break from the office, where everything was changing for Raylan--a promotion down the line, and with it higher expectations as to his professional performance, and most challenging of all--a baby picture on his desk and the daily battle of managing not to set his coffee mug atop of it and leave stains. This sojourn to the country should have been downright relaxing, but Raylan found himself feeling needled and bothered as his thoughts kept returning to some sorry aspect or another of his previous night. The Chinese food, the wine--not his usual style, but it would work in a pinch. He thought he'd been charming enough, a gracious host... Yet he'd seen the sharp-witted blonde off with a dull "you drive safe, now" and a cool "maybe I'll call you." 

She'd smirked, replied that maybe she'd answer. 

Raylan turned down the radio and, when that didn’t command Tim’s attention, used the buttons on the wheel to raise the open windows they had both been enjoying. Tim was jostled into retreating his elbow from out the car window. He threw Raylan a smart look, which Raylan promptly ignored. 

He figured he could puzzle out one aspect of his evening with some source material sat to his right.

“Lemme ask you something. Are you fit and polite and sweet as pie?”

Tim frowned. _Deeply._ “I had a dream like this once,” he started, eyeing Raylan speculatively. “I sense there’s more coming. Continue.”

“This woman I’m seeing,” Raylan explained. “Loretta’s social worker. Used to date military boys, and is presently under the delusion that she prefers them to law enforcement types." 

Tim folded his hands behind his head, sort of triumphant-like, as if this was a personal victory for him. “So do you want advice or is this going to circle back around to that dream I had?”

“Nope,” Raylan drawled. “On both fronts. Just confirming to myself that she is sorely mistaken.” 

Tim rolled his eyes and searched for a means to lower his window again. Raylan was taking the well-known stretches and turns to Harlan fast--faster still at Tim’s prompting--and the drive was, for once, exciting rather than monotonous. His search proved futile. “Aw, what? This is child-locked. Why is that even a feature?”

Raylan took pity on him and cracked the window. 

The familiar landscape allowed Raylan to dip back into his own thoughts, get lost for a while. He again closed Tim’s window-- _”Dude”_ \--and posed another odd question: “You ever been to a military trade show?”

“Like, helmets and gas masks and shit?” Tim shook his head. “I didn’t buy the stuff, I just wore it.” 

Tim studied Raylan a moment, wondering what it was about this woman that had the cowboy-Marshal questioning anything. Willing to keep the conversation going in hopes of discovering exactly that, Tim added, “Once saw a weapons demo, though. Just like that scene in _Iron Man._ Dude was even… really short.” Tim’s face split into a grin at the memory. “So she used to do the trade shows? And you haven’t slept with her yet?”

Raylan lifted an eyebrow. “How do you figure that?”

“We wouldn’t be talking about her employment history if you had something more interesting to go off of.” This was true. There was a reason Tim knew about all four of Lindsey’s tattoos. Rachel didn’t care for that kind of talk and Raylan didn’t have any real friends to show off for, so Tim it was. 

“How old is she?” At Raylan’s flat look, Tim amended, “Maybe we crossed paths. Maybe I’ve seen more of her than you have.”

“Thought you’d never been to a trade show.”

“I’ve never frequented a whorehouse, neither, but I gather about the same sort of business gets made.”

Tim noticed the car had slowed, like Raylan was issuing a tacit threat. _I will pull this car over and leave you handcuffed to a fence post, son._

“She’s not a whore,” Raylan said, eyes on some distant point of dusty road. “She’s smart.”

“I don’t believe I said contrary to either point,” Tim drawled, and gave Raylan a moment to come to that conclusion, himself. “And if she is smart, I don’t doubt she told you any different about how those shows are.”

Raylan supposed that _had_ been Alison's point--almost to the letter. He glanced at Tim, sort of impressed, and allowed, “If things work out with this one, you should meet her.”

The deep crease that favored Tim's brow when he was displeased quickly fell into place. Then Tim frowned, made a soft noise of derision, and snapped his mouth shut. When he eventually spoke, Raylan was surprised to hear absolutely no notes of surprise in his voice, like Tim was speaking to some idiot repeat offender. “Are you serious? You got a _child_ out of the last one _things worked out with._ ”

“Jesus Christ, you’re young.” It wasn’t an insult Raylan used often on Tim, partly because it didn’t really apply, but mostly because it reflected poorly on Raylan. “Things did not _work out_ with Winona.”

“Oh, okay. So fuck that kid.”

“The hell is your problem?” Raylan snapped, his temper flaring despite knowing full well this had nothing to do with Tim's opinion of his child--just Tim's opinion of her father.

“The hell is yours?” Tim didn't elaborate; he left that up to Raylan. 

Raylan wet his lips. He didn't need time to think of an honest answer, just a way out of giving it so easily. But the words came anyway, forged long before he'd even seen the kid, entertained the notion of having one, or met Winona, for that matter. Like they'd always been there, they leapt from his tongue and through the cracks of his gritted teeth: "I’d be a shitty father.”

“That’s the kid’s problem,” Tim corrected. “But strike one for talking about her like she doesn’t exist.”

“I _am_ a shitty father," Raylan said, humoring Tim. He did it with a dry tone and enough easy charm to mask the fact that he very much did not like saying those words out loud. "You happy now?”

Tim followed Raylan back into joking territory. “Well no, Raylan, that’s quite the sorry sentiment, really.”

Raylan focused on the road, unsure of what they'd accomplished. Tim continued to fiddle with the window and lock buttons on his side of the car, to no effect.

"You should like your kid," Tim said, mulling the words around in his mouth because they didn't taste right. "She doesn't even look like a potato anymore. You should probably love her."

"I do love my daughter," Raylan returned, exasperated with the fact that he was being forced to answer to Tim, of all people, and dispel the same doubts he'd only previously heard from himself. It was bizarre to say the least, and Raylan knew he could have shut Tim up by letting his words just hang there, unanswered and insane like they were. But Raylan's pride would never allow for that, so he repeated: "I love her." 

Raylan waved a hand, dismissing the whole awkward turn, and assured himself and his audience, "This is separate from her, completely. Alison is just... Something to do."

Tim, maybe aware that he'd overstepped some boundary, cooled. With his attention drawn out the window and onto the blur of trees and hills, he deadpanned, "And you didn't win her over with that love song? What a bitch." 

Raylan, feeling they'd returned to a place best suited for a long drive like they one they had ahead of them, allowed himself to smile at Tim's joke. He scratched at his throat, dull fingernails on short prickly hairs. “Might try that on her tonight."

Tim made the sign of the cross, as though fashioning himself the patron saint of getting laid. "You have my blessing."

"Military boy such as yourself must be doing something right," Raylan observed, and when the comment went seemingly unnoticed, he pressed more plainly: "You seein’ anybody?”

“No, but lemme tell you ‘bout this dream I had…” 

\- 

More so than cars, _sexist, racist assholes_ had fine taste in home decor. The confederate paraphernalia not included, there was a vast array of riches in the Monroe mansion now at U.S. Marshal disposal.

Raylan, much to his dismay, heard some such revelry at play in the basement. Specifically, the clattering of wooden bowling pins against a buffed, private alleyway. Like Presidents enjoy.

The basement was split between a bar area--complete with a cherry red pool table, which lost some of its beauty when Raylan saw it was designed to match the enormous Confederate flag draped along the wall beside it--and the bowling alley. Raylan thought it was telling there was just the one lane; Monroe didn’t seem the type to share his wealth. Rachel and Tim, however, were expert sharers. Sat on the arm of the single red leather recliner stationed near the ball return, Tim had helped himself to the litany of alcoholic favors stocked in a mahogany cabinet with glass panels. A few of his selections littered the countertop positioned below the small screens bearing the scores. Not a particularly picky drinker, Tim only had the one crystal bourbon glass to taste test the spread, not minding a little mixing of drinks if they all burned when going down. Rachel, conversely, had opted only for a beer. 

Or maybe not just the one. Rachel’s pretty face was split with a wide, toothy smile. She laughed as Tim threw bunched up pieces of paper napkins at her in an attempt to throw off her game. 

They weren’t sleeping in the man’s bed, sure, but they had certainly made themselves at home. 

Raylan’s boots on the glossy hardwood floors caught their attention. “I’m sorry,” he said, frowning at his fellow Marshals, “I didn’t hear you come in. From the backdoor, presumably, or possibly a window.”

“From the front door, with a candlestick,” Tim corrected, the goofy turn in his humor an indication of just how much he'd already had to drink. “Probably owned by Jefferson Davis.” 

“Did you notice the portrait of Lincoln above the toilet?” Rachel asked, toeing up at the line, her form immaculate.

Raylan had seen it. He tipped his hat. “Very tastefully done, all those dicks in his mouth.” 

Tim grinned. He’d had Rachel take a photo of him with it. 

Sighing, Raylan got to his point: “Loathe as I am to break up such a fine party as this, I’d like to know what you’re doing in my humble dwelling, and how much longer it’ll take?” 

“Rachel’s kicking my ass at bowling,” Tim answered promptly. “This will continue for all long as I can convince myself of an inevitable and sweeping comeback.” 

“Could be days,” Rachel mused, and took her turn. The ball glided fast and easy to the right, curving just in time to collide with the pins. A handsome shot, leaving just two pins standing.

Tim gave a raucous holler of disbelief and celebration. Rachel took a cool bow, just a tiny dip at her tiny waist. 

“I’ve got someone upstairs,” Raylan said, tired and bland in a way that suggested sharing this detail wasn’t an invitation for opinions.

_Request denied._

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” Rachel asked, her lips twinged in a knowing smile. She was handling a glossy, midnight-blue bowling ball out of the return console. 

“Is it Manuela?” Tim teased. “Is she making your iguana all tender?”

Raylan fixed them both with a dry look. “At least keep it down.”

“Remember when he used to be _cool?_ ” Tim asked facetiously of Rachel, well within earshot of Raylan, who had started for the stairs. 

“No,” Rachel answered back, her tone light and dismissive--just in the way that would dig at Raylan most.

She threw her turn, sending both remaining pins spiraling into the abyss. 

“Oh my god,” Tim said, head falling into his hands as he did the math. It was no longer merely a trouncing, it was a massacre.

“I agree,” Rachel said, her red-hued lips twisting into a gleeful smirk. “I thought you’d be better at this, too.” 

“I’m not even that bad,” Tim said in disbelief. “But you’re fucking incredible.” 

“You’re pretty bad,” Rachel corrected, smiling. She accepted the beer Tim handed her, and instead of sharing the leather recliner, made a bee-line for an l-shaped leather couch opposite the pool table. “When’d you last play?”

“Never.” Tim left his perch and joined her. “But I worked at a movie theater when I was fifteen, and watched _The Big Lebowski_ every other day for six months. Figured I'd have picked something up."

"From a movie theater that showed _The Big Lebowski_ for six months?" Rachel teased, her Tennessee accent out in full force, "I can think of a number of things you might have picked up." 

It took Tim a moment, but eventually he grinned and acquiesced, "People used to forget stuff--jackets, hats. I got lice once from one of those trapper hats with the ear flaps." He smirked and gestured at the gaudy _The South Will Rise Again_ home decor. "Shaved my head bald, looked like I belonged in this place."

The thought chilled Rachel, but she shook it off, seeking the pleasant buzz from her third beer. 

“I played volleyball in college,” she told him, her attention falling back to the bowling alley and the game she'd dominated. “And we had to share gym space with the basketball team, which pissed us off because _that was our year,_ you know? But they were cool girls. Every Sunday me and my girlfriends on the volleyball team would square off against the women’s basketball team at this decrepit little bowling alley," she shook her head, "In this disgusting part of town, with two dollar beer that was _grossly_ over-priced. Some of the best times of my life." 

Tm was looking at the lane, too, his eyes gone tight as though he was trying to picture Rachel there, her college-aged self kicking ass even in gym shorts and an oversized Ole Miss sweatshirt. His gaze returned to Rachel, sat catty-corner to him on the couch. “We should play volleyball,” he said, slipping into that drunken stage that held only good tidings and intent for the future. "Promise me we will."

“Have you ever even--” Rachel stopped herself, laughed, and predicted Tim’s answer: “No, but you’ve seen _Top Gun._ ” 

" _So many times,_ ” Tim said, and they toasted their drinks to such a fine spectacle of film.

Tim slowed in his drinking, some. They bowled a few more frames, but ended up on the couch again, neither saying much of anything. It was enough to just observe their bizarre situation, smile and be content.

When Rachel next spoke, it wasn't in the vein of happy memories and good-natured ribbing. “How was Harlan?”

Tim shrugged. “Found the guy. Raylan did his hillbilly whisperer shit and we killed an hour with a wet lunch in Berea.” 

“Rough day,” Rachel observed.

“Glad to finally unwind,” Tim agreed.

“Thanks for going,” Rachel said, remembering the weak line she’d delivered to Art about having a lot of paperwork and deadlines to meet. Stressing over the fib was needless--Art was quick to send Tim in her stead, unbothered by the change of plans--but Rachel didn’t like that she’d done that, all the same. “I hate that place.” It was hardly spoken above a whisper, but the sentiment seemed to amplify in their current digs. Rachel smoothed her hair back, lifted her chin and met Tim with a grim little smile and an expressionless face. “People either see me as a personal affront to their lifestyle, or they ignore me completely.”

Tim nodded. Rachel had been getting that a lot, lately. Suggesting it only happened in backwards places like Harlan County wasn’t cutting it anymore--they all knew better. It had happened, too, not a day ago, and just above their heads.

Rachel didn’t talk about those instances often--Tim even wondered to what extent her own mother heard of it, after supper and over a coffee--so when she did spare a word, Tim figured she wasn’t seeking a conversational partner, just a pair of eyes, meeting hers. 

“Like this asshole,” she said, throwing her head back to indicate the home that was the material manifestation of one man’s glowing endorsement of such a profoundly dark time in their nation's history. “And _Gloria._ Heaven help if I ever…” Rachel trailed off, not entirely certain she was wholly innocent of ever playing ignorant to a white man’s arrogance. 

The case against Monroe wasn’t particularly weak, but given how he lived, it wasn’t a long shot that he’d prove too shrewd to get a finger on. Tim and Rachel both reckoned he’d be back in his gaudy house with a wet-vac crew, demanding to know "what the negress touched."

Tim put down the ornate bourbon glass from which he'd been drinking. Using the man's bowling alley was one thing, but taking any pleasure from Monroe's own joys suddenly left Tim feeling ill. “You wanna go put Monroe’s toothbrush in the toilet? Erase _Duck Dynasty_ from his DVR? Fill his Netflix queue with _Orange is the New Black?_ ”

“Yes, yes, yes, and so much worse.” Rachel couldn't keep the tiny grin off her face, relieved Tim got her meaning but didn't seek to match it. “But I should head out.”

Tim threw an arm towards the bowling lane. “I was just hitting my stride!”

Rachel stood, finished her beer, and made a proposal. “Tell you what,” she said, “Go get me a bottled water and I’ll see what I can do about your score.”

Tim took the steps two at a time. 

While searching the kitchen, Tim was joined by Raylan, who had lost his shirt but didn't seem so concerned about it. 

"Dude," Tim admonished, gesturing to Raylan's jeans-and-boots only attire. "This place is basically Kentucky's Downton Abbey. Put a shirt on." 

“I thought I told you to stay down stairs.” Raylan said, ignoring the order and elbowing into the kitchen, in search of something, himself.

“I thought you were a cool dad,” Tim said, wrinkling his nose. “It’s okay, Rachel’s taking my turn. I gotta catch up somehow.”

“What happened to, _I don’t miss?_ ”

“I _wanted_ to take my rifle to ‘em, but Rachel said it was cheating… or willful destruction of Marshal property… something dumb.” Tim took a second glance at Raylan, supposing losing his shirt wasn't as far as Raylan had hoped to go. “Your evening not progressing as planned?”

“It’s going very well, thank you.” _Now_ went unsaid as Raylan plucked a bottle of Blanton's hidden behind a bag of Doritos in the cupboards. 

“Shit," Tim marveled, wishing he'd found something that good in the downstairs bar. "And I've been slumming it with Makers Mark.”

Raylan scoffed. “I wouldn't feed that to the hounds."

Rachel joined them--sparing a quirked eyebrow at Raylan, but nothing more--and saddled up next to Tim. She'd slipped back into her jacket and held Tim's out for him. "Congratulations, you've crossed the threshold into triple digits."

"A solid showing," Tim allowed. A smile curved his lips and he dropped his head. “Speaking of…” 

A pair of bare, manicured feet padded into the kitchen, led by a pair of perky breasts in a gravity-defying black bra. “Rayl--oh shit!” 

Raylan’s visitor didn’t bother trying to hide her body, or was simply too caught off guard to make an effort. Petite and shapely, it was nothing she’d ever hid, anyway. “You didn’t tell me we had company,” she said with a strained smile. Then, attempting to save face, she tried: "Introductions? I’m Alison. Totally not… a whore.” 

“So I’ve heard,” Tim said with a smile and an outstretched hand. “Tim.” 

Not batting an eye, Rachel did the same. “Rachel Brooks. Cute panties.” 

“Thank you,” Alison said, genuinely touched. 

Tim offered his jacket for Alison to cover herself with, but she waved a dismissive hand. "I think that ship has sailed," she laughed. "Real sweet of you to offer, though." 

"Sweet as pie, some might say," Raylan echoed dully, giving Tim a sharp look. 

Tim rolled his eyes, but took the hint all the same. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the back-end of the house just beyond the kitchen. "Perimeter's clear, right Rachel?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, the clearest."

"Then our work here is done." 

They left the house stifling any giggles. Stepping outside the mansion into the cool, late night, however, brought a rush of fresh air into their lungs, and they couldn’t help but grin. Raylan was every slick stereotype personified: the lover, the fighter, the cowboy, the gunslinger, the law. He was backwoods country trash that had exceeded expectations, but not his name. He was flat-stomached and strong-jawed and just _too. goddamn. cool._

Plus, he was totally getting laid. 

“Gross beautiful people,” Rachel said of the ordeal. And she was right. 

-

7:30am on a Sunday morning, and Raylan couldn't figure who was pounding at the door to the Monroe house. The Monroe case was mounting and Raylan didn’t believe the slimy accountant would have a means of issuing a threat while in lock-up--least of all, a threat that would literally come knocking. Monroe didn't deal in illegal goods so there was no chance of some kind of shipment, and it wasn't a prime hour for religious solicitations. Raylan was at a complete loss.

He managed to pull on his jeans and stuff his sidearm down the waist, just in case the latter cause of commotion panned out. 

Instead of hellfire and damnation, Raylan opened the door to a familiar face, though the reason for her being there was further still from Raylan's comprehension. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Good morning to you, too," Rachel said, elbowing her way in. "Tim asked that I feed the bird.”

Raylan stared at her. “I can feed the bird!”

“Have you fed the bird?”

Raylan had been in the Monroe mansion six days. He knew not of this alleged bird. 

"Thought so. You can go back to bed, this is a one man job."

It was early. It was Sunday. Raylan was of half a mind to do just that and forget Rachel had ever stopped by. He'd be at the office Monday at a reasonable hour and she'd explain to him the entire ordeal. 

Instead, his bare feet took to following Rachel through the house, curious. He saw one of his shirts abandoned on an umbrella stand, collected it and slipped it on. 

Rachel stopped at a room just off the kitchen--the housekeeper's quarters, Raylan figured, though he had not visited them personally. And lo, sleeping contentedly in a giant wire cage, was a bright-cheeked cockatiel. 

"Well," Raylan observed. "It is _a_ bird. Are you sure it's _the_ bird?" 

Rachel opened the cage door and patiently awaited the bird to take an interest in her. It had a bright yellow face and complimenting feathered crest, and its plump body was a patterned gray and white, with brilliant yellow accents. The curve of its beak and bright orange cheeks gave the creature the look of a perpetual smile. 

Raylan scrubbed at his face, still confused. "Why can't Tim do this?" He asked, not previously aware that he had been in and out of the mansion for the past week. But at such an early hour on a Sunday morning, it seemed all manner of impolite to shift the task onto Rachel. 

Rachel shrugged, not seeing things that way in the slightest. "I didn't ask." She pulled her phone from her pocket and handed it to Raylan. "He texted instructions. Food is in a wrapped plate in the fridge." 

Raylan didn’t move. His commitment to the task at hand was stalled by his severe lack of understanding and coffee. 

Rachel drew away from the cage and assessed her fellow Marshal. “Remember that part in an investigation where we actually question criminals and their associates? You were off joyriding at the time, so let me catch you up." 

She explained first that the bird belonged to the housekeeper, Manuela, and that Monroe wasn’t even aware of the creature’s existence. (Here, Rachel fixed Raylan with a smart look.) The minute Monroe was out of earshot in the Marshals offices, Manuela had broken down into tears and told Rachel and Tim about Peppers.

"Peppers?"

Finally, the bird took to Rachel's hand and allowed her to extract it from the cage. "Good Peppers," she commended. "Manuela will likely only be kept for questioning, and isn't allowed to take anything from the property until we've determined what Monroe accumulated illegally."

"You know, Rachel, I'm familiar with procedure." 

"Pop quiz, then. Why can't we just return Peppers to Manuela?" 

At a loss, Raylan tried, "Tim's grown very fond of her." 

Rachel didn’t miss a beat. "Manuela's paycheck came from Monroe’s professional accounts, which were the funds procured through his illustrious line of work.” She carefully stroked the birds head until she cooed happily. “We confiscate his, we confiscate hers.” 

"That's a shitty rule," Raylan observed, fairly certain the iguana-roasting maid had no connection to Detroit.

"That's procedure." 

Rachel went about the business of collecting the plate herself, and feeding Peppers little pieces of fruit and leafy vegetables. 

Finally, Raylan glanced at Tim’s message: a detailed meal plan of scrambled eggs and lean meats. If he pretended he was still asleep and dreaming, cooking up a Sunday morning omelette breakfast for a parrot wasn’t such an deranged task. 

While the chicken popped and sizzled on the skillet, Raylan scrolled through the rest of Tim's texted instructions. Passing those and creeping more into Tim and Rachel's text history, he found that Rachel was telling the explicit truth: to Tim's typo-ridden request of a huge, bird-related favor, Rachel merely responded, _[No problem. What needs doing?]_

Raylan scrolled to the end of their most recent conversation, seeing the instructions were topped off with Tim's issue of thanks and promise of Monday morning coffee. 

Another text buzzed in Rachel's phone, and Raylan nearly called to her, but stalled when he saw it was from Tim, and better still--it was an explanation. _[Red eye got cancelled. Slept at an airport Chilis in my funeral duds. Still looking sharp.]_

As proof, Tim sent a photo. Raylan glanced at Rachel, saw that she was busy with the bird, and opened the attachment. It was Tim and two other men, all dressed identically in formal military wears, tired-eyed and crowded around a small table, each with a plate of eggs and a beer. 

A final additional text read, _[Tell Peppers I love herrrrr.]_

While he managed the chicken--still not convinced birds should ingest their cousins, but maybe Peppers had roots in Harlan County--Raylan scrolled through Tim and Rachel’s texts. Idly, and only because he felt a little bad behavior could mitigate the early hour and good deedery. Beyond work related texts and the odd inane joke, there was no damning evidence of an affair--because who knew why Rachel left her husband, really?--and Raylan quickly lost interest. He moved the shredded chicken to a cool burner and started on the eggs. 

It just seemed so _wrong._

“Rachel,” Raylan called from the kitchen, “Stay for breakfast. I don’t know how much of this that bird’s gonna eat.” 

"Oh, wow,” Rachel drawled, “that almost sounded considerate." 

Raylan joined Rachel at an ornate dining table with two omelettes, cutting the corner off his own for the bird, who trilled excitedly and began to pick at the meal. Raylan left for the kitchen again, returning with his shirt fully buttoned and two tall glasses of orange juice. 

A fine presentation, all around.

The dining room was situated in an open space with a great wall of windows boasting a view of the backyard pool and tall, private gardens. The light was warm and inviting, the chair plush, her company handsome, and for a moment Rachel forgot that such a beautiful place belonged to such an ugly man. 

"Alison's not joining us?" Rachel asked, lifting an eyebrow speculatively at the fine meal Raylan had prepared with no clear payout in sight. 

"The drive is a little out of her way." 

Rachel only picked at her meal, her attention routinely drawn to the wall of windows and the view beyond them. "I'm going to be late for church,” she said, not so much to Raylan but to herself. Raylan took notice that she was dressed in slacks and a more delicate top than the plain blouses and suit jackets she favored for work. It was a soft pink, a slinky material with lace patterning down the front. 

"We could say grace or something." 

Rachel rolled her eyes and started in on her omelette. 

Peppers danced excitedly around the perimeter of the table, happy for the company and good food. Rachel wondered about the poor thing’s existence, shut away in the maid’s quarters, its presence unknown to Monroe for years, and Raylan for the past week.

They ate in silence for a time, save for the bird’s whistles and chirps. Raylan pulled Rachel’s phone from his pocket and slid it across the table. "Tim was texting you." 

Rachel glanced at the latest messages, smiling a little at the last. "Tim is very concerned about the bird." 

"Whose funeral was it?" Raylan asked, blowing his cover and making it abundantly clear that he’d read the texts, too. 

"I don't know, Raylan," Rachel answered, her tone more than a little cool towards him. 

"You two don't talk about that stuff?"

Rachel gestured with her phone. "Mostly we just talk about birds." 

As if understanding the joke for an invitation, Peppers waddled over to Rachel and stepped onto her her arm, then climbed its length and perched itself on Rachel’s shoulder. It chattered excitedly, swung its head in circles, and issued a series of whistled catcalls. 

Rachel, startled by the creature’s sudden affectionate turn, smiled. The kind of smile Raylan had last seen on her face as she bowled a winning game against Tim in the basement, and before that? Raylan couldn’t be sure. Raylan decided that, in her church clothes, smiling broadly over a breakfast Raylan himself had prepared, and partnered with an exotic bird on her shoulder, Rachel looked as pretty as a picture. He took up Rachel’s phone and snapped one, sending it to Tim before he could think not to. 

Tim’s immediate reply made Raylan frown, but Rachel’s face broke into a broad grin as she read it. 

_[Gross beautiful people.]_


End file.
